I wish photographs were like memories. They would start out as well-focused images with crisp edges and clearly defined details. But with the passage of time, the images would lose their clarity, edges would soften, and everything within the frame would blur until it seemed we were looking at the world through an old man’s eyes.
Colours would fade as if our images had been left for years exposed to the sunlight, blasted at last to a bone-white page, barely recognizable as photographs. They would offer a hint of indistinct things. They would become self-deprecating, like a great-grandmother, and motion us to look beyond the frame to a world haunted by ghosts. A fog would fill our minds with a doubt that we were ever alive.
